


Winter Magnolias

by LuckyNumberMe



Category: Salomé - Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost - Oscar Wilde, The Happy Prince - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruises, Canon Non-Binary Character, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff and Smut, Gay, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Scars, Tenderness, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23739352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyNumberMe/pseuds/LuckyNumberMe
Summary: You should have known better. How did you ever think this time would be different? Your knife found its target with a dull thunk. And another followed. You knew what people like Dartmouth thought of people like you and you fell into his broad, rower's arms regardless. And so soon after you embarrassed yourself in front of Oscar. Your pre-throw breath was interrupted by a soft voice in the distance. Fuck. And now Oscar was home.Aka: You are an N-B/Trans man in Victorian England living as a "bachelor" with the famous playwright. Softened and jaded by his time at Reading Gaol, he may have developed a soft spot for his young, sharp-tongued housemate."You" have female equipment
Relationships: Oscar Wilde & Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	Winter Magnolias

**Author's Note:**

> •edits, what edits? (this is unfiltered gay chaos)
> 
> •Second person insert fic
> 
> •No specified gender for reader, other than "not a woman"  
> (female equipment) 
> 
> I know there are historical innaccuracies. I don't care
> 
> *°*•*— theydies, and gentleplants, enjoy! — *•*°*

Mud spattered the entry way, you felt it slide off your shoes as they clacked on the tile. Before any internal critique can sound off, your mind snaps out a "Nothing matters, leave it" 

it was a Friday evening, so Oscar was definitely out at some function or another. You were grateful for the solitude. You hated it when people saw you like this. Your stomach turned at the thought of him seeing you like this. Vest unbraced over a shirt more rain than cloth. So unkempt. You needed something to make sense. you needed something to control, something that felt normal. Tossing kindling on top of the scalded logs, you began to set a fire in the grate. simple motions your hands knew. that would help. 

The bruise welling on your face was hot and wrong. part of you wished it would bleed, so that at least there would be a physical gash to justify the pain. It was like the Greenshire night all over again. the gawks, the laughter, the inevitable shame pouring like hot tea on bare skin. at least this time you had the presence of mind to throw your muddied cloak over his darling fiancee's silver gown. the cloak was cheap, replaceable. the silk gown with grafts of lace and chiffon spilling at the bodice would not be so easily rescued. You latched onto that small vindication like a viper on an open calf.

once the fire was roaring, you began pacing the floor, stopping only to slip off your coat. How could you have thought it would be different? You should have known better by now. You were an accessory, a fun anecdote at an underground party. You made the wearer more interesting and slightly scandalous. you hated it. all of it. this city that kicked its people in the street and clapped at the way they were trampled. 

everything in your blood was fire. Lord Edgar Dartmouth and his lady fiancee made sure of that. You needed something powerful enough to exhaust yourself before you could even begin to think properly. Grabbing the small case and a fresh cloak—it was Oscar's but he could do without it for an hour— you moved through the passageway until you came to the targeted trunks. The dim orange light of street lamps would have to do. Barely taking time to loosen the cloak, you threw down the box on a stump, and began pulling its contents out one by one and landing them in the trees. 

You weren't a religious person, but with knives nestled between your fingers, you thought you understood worship. The balance, the even breathing, the target, the instinct: they were all prayers. You retrieved and threw them until every knife had pierced the dark center. And then you started again. by the time the rain started, your mind had cooled down enough to return inside. grabbing your violent little sacraments, you rushed back up the passage to the house and straight into a tall figure with a lantern. 

the body was heavy against yours and it smelled of musk and magnolias. Oscar. he must have come home early. Apologies flitted through your mind, but none of them were able to break the surface of your mouth. this was the last thing you needed. Thrusting his cloak at him to create distance, you let out a sharp, "Don't worry, it's back in one piece and no worse for the wear"  
"At least one of you is". The sight of his wide curved neck made you want to fall apart, and you escaped it only to meet his eyes. a bad idea. your insides churned at the concern beneath their usual champagne sparks. and the slight glaze. ah, of course he'd been drinking. 

"Glad to see the gin hasn't dulled your rapier wit."

"It would have to have a remarkable reach to do that." 

"I'm well aware of how pedestaled your wit is, Oscar." 

"intangible eloquence, that is my hamartia." after a beat, he continued,"any longer out there and your lovely trousers will be soiled."

"At least they'll match the rest of me" 

He clicked as he stepped aside. "self-deprecation doesn't suit you, friend." 

Ouch. So soon after Dartmouth's cruelty, the word sunk into you like your knives into their targets: perfectly. Stepping inside, you retorted. "Everything suits me, Oscar dear. that's my geas" and you marched back towards the fire to warm your feet. You registered a low chuckle behind you, but couldn't afford to pay it any mind. The steps behind you faltered as you came into the ochre lamplight of the parlor. 

"What happened?" of course he noticed the bruise. 

"Oscar dear, didn't we agree to keep these arrangements strictly business after my indiscretion last week?" 

"Are you in trouble?" 

"Only the usual kind" 

"Damn it, Francis, will you not let me help?" 

you swallowed an angry retort before you could let it free. your name on his lips sounded too good, and you were suddenly on fire again with something that wasn't quite anger. Oscar did nothing. you had overstepped last week, been too candid with him about your… well suffice to say, you knew that kind of honesty was difficult for him. he deserved better than some who so carelessly spilled their own secrets.  
"I know. I just. did something foolish." 

"the usual kind?" no witty response rose to mind so you tried a different tactic. 

"I made a mistake. I was rewarded for it with this little gem" you brandished the bruise towards him. "if I'm smart, it won't happen again." 

"no matter how intelligent or charming you are, the world will always find room for cruelty. That is my area of expertise, haven't you heard? " 

you realized with a start that he was talking about Alfie. In the year the two of you had been living together as "bachelors", he only mentioned his former lover twice and very drunkenly. you didn't blame him. after what happened between them, you were surprised he emerged from Reading in one piece. another consequence of this cruel society. You ached for another world to live in, one where people like you were allowed to speak the words that filled you. one where you didn't need secret codes or sidelong glances to recognize your own people. one where you were treated like anything other than the circus oddity you felt like here. 

When you looked up at Oscar again, his eyes were on you. waiting. the drunken glaze was gone. inside their depths was just a tired man. a man who had lost everything and had only a handful strings keeping him to this existence. sometimes you forgot this was him, too— the solemn-eyed Irishman far from home and always treading water. on that account, you were the same. 

"Dare I say," he continued, " It may very well have been Dartmouth's fault. It would be a gross overestimation of your influence to assume you could earn something like that." 

He was right of course. Dartmouth did what he did out of petulant abuse of power. they always did. you started to settle in for the night, shucking off your boots and beginning to unbrace your corset.

"My foolishness to hope for decency of another human is not deserving of abuse?" He settled into the long damasked couch by your side.

"In my opinion, decency is deserved. Abuse is earned." Again, you caught him in the middle of a distant look. Turning, he asked,"would you like some assistance?" gesturing downwards. you had been struggling with the corset for a minute or so now. The logical part of your brain screamed to say no, that this would only make you hurt more, but your traitor lips said, "Please" before anything else could escape. 

You turned your back to him and felt big fingers grasp the cords and slowly loosen them. your neck was lit with warm breath and you realized he must have stood up. Silencing your mind, you breathed into it like a knife throw. feeling each sensation tie you to this moment. intimacy was a different kind of religion, you realized. you had been held of course, and done the holding. but something about this moment felt set apart, holy. his breath hitched as the laces came undone to reveal the puckered lines and gathered flesh of your back. you quickly shuffled the shirt over your breasts and back again, muttering thanks and tucking it into your breeches. 

worry half-surfaced in you, but you knew Oscar wouldn't ask. you both had scars. it came with the territory of your existence. most of his came from Reading. Most of yours came from before you made the journey south. You remember the first day you met. you had just emerged from a party at the Brown estate and he was just entering. You recognized him immediately. The press had been both vocal and unkind about his trial, charges, and continued existence. He met your eyes with a delighted charm and complimented your attire thoroughly. "It's a wonder to imagine what the world would be like if more women had the courage to wear breeches"  
"You do me wrong in both accounts, good sir. These are trousers, and I am not a woman."  
Sliding him a grin and tipping your hat, you stepped into the night. 

"My dear fellow, may I learn the name of the charming individual I had the pleasure of insulting this evening?" continuing away, you shouted behind you. 

"Why, I am surprised you do not know the infamous playwright Oscar Wilde! He's got a strange reputation, but I for one,am quite fond of his work." You heard him laughing until the door closed behind him. And what a glorious sound it was. 

And now here he was standing beside you, the farthest thing from a stranger you had. His eyes were on your back, just like that first night. you could feel them there. 

"Don't go back there." 

"Don't worry about me, Ozzy. I can take care of myself."

"Please. I know what men like Dartmouth do to people like you. I do not want to see you disappear into the background of this world." 

"I'm hardly foreground material." 

"Francis, I don't want you to be brushed away, forgotten"

"I will be forgotten. Oscar, you are a genius the likes of Euripedes and Homer. and despite the horrors you have endured, your legacy will be passed down. I will pass into mist as people like me always do. I am a curio, a bauble to this world, nothing more. Why do you care who wears me?"

"Because I want you."

Everything stilled. Eyes met eyes. Fuck, he actually meant it. the desire hung in his eyes like an empty noose. it swung. an invitation. the look of a scalded man at an open fire. All the moments of gentleness hit your memory at once. Him escorting you out of a manor red-faced, egg smeared on your doublet. The way he jumped to defend you when your wit wasn't as incisive as another guest's. His drunken lips spilling lines of Keats and Horace as you held up so he could walk home. you had assumed it to be sympathy, pity even. 

His eyes, crystalline as a loch in spring, trailed down to your lips. You scanned each inch of his face, the high cheeks, cornered nose, and finally the two plush lips, pink as a sunset. and then you were holding him. everything was magnolias, musk, and the warmth of his mouth. it was hot breath on your neck and the twist your hands in his loose shirt. everything was soft firmness of his body latched to yours. When a breathless moan escaped your throat, he chuckled into your mouth and hoisted your huge thighs around him. Your teeth found his ear and it was his turn to grunt. you hummed and kissed the vast expanse of his neck, swirling and nipping until you going each place that made his hips drive up involuntarily. He was delicious beneath you. and when you pulled away to see his face, he pulled you back and deepened the kiss. his hands roamed every inch of your back and waist, waiting for permission to slide under your shirt or along your waistband. he pulled you down until his mouth was on your neck and shoulders and you were begging like a supplicant. more of his skin on yours, more of him beneath your mouth, more of that hoarse voice in your ears. More. 

And he obliged. He let you pull his hands down between your legs. he let you slip his broad fingers into you. You showed him your weaknesses and he exploited them until the dim room rung with moans. May I? you ask, slipping your hand in between you. he growled in response. your fingers teased the lines of his hips and thighs, brushing ever so softly against the hardness hidden by fabric. he bucked into the touch and a new wave of need flooded through you.  
You pulled away from him, with little protest. you looked down. a question. he nodded. look who was speechless now.  
and his bare thighs hovered in front you. your nails stroked the coarse hair and you let your hot breath wash over his erection until he growled "Stop teasing me, dear, or this will go very differently." The poet had found his words at last.  
How many times had you imagined this? Your mouth wrapped around his cock pulling the sweetest sounds from his throat, him towering above you like a paragon of elegance, the smell of his want thick in the air. god, if you could bottle this feeling, you drink it it every morning. you suckled at his cock and drowned with every sound it elicited. A hand found your shoulder and pulled you up to his mouth. This was delicious, too. "I want to be inside you. I want to feel the tightness of you sheathed around me. What do you say, little lark?"  
"Please. please."  
"Please?"  
"Please, I want you."  
a hand found and toyed with one of your nipples. you swallowed the moan threatening to escape. "I want to know the slide of your sword, I want to know the heft of it inside me. I want to hold it until it cannot but burst for the oblivion of pleasure."  
"Well said, little lark."  
Oil found skin, and soon he was massaging the smell of magnolias into your soft flesh. you felt the drip of him behind you and his cock slide deliciously between the cleft of your ass. When he slowly breached the gap, you couldn't breathe for the pleasure of it. when he was fully hilted and gasping himself, everything turned red and black with sensation. You became one animal, coursing with need and half-voiced pleas. the room filled with sex and flowers and the sound of pooling desire. When the percussion of skin against skin sped up, the world went fully black, you felt him spill into you and groaned at the feeling. He wasn't done with you yet. He pulled your mouth to his and his tongue slid across your reddened lips. His head lowered down your body, trailing nips and hands digging into your ass. his tongue found the bead you showed him earlier and danced with it until your whole body was trembling and release crested through your veins like a broken dam. 

he lifted his eyes and you saw a plea left in them. You leaned and kissed his forehead, combing through his hair. He rose to you and placed your forehead to his. Your arms wound around each other in the dying firelight. For a moment, the world was free of coded messages, of traitorous lovers, of the ever-looming threat of loss. Everything here felt alive as the rain pattered against the roof. The rest was laughter and the scent of magnolias in bloom.


End file.
